The Jungle AU
by ADozenWerds
Summary: While on his way to find a colony, America just happens to rescue a certain micronation. Sort of. Kind of. Well, not really. But that's beside the point, because now he's in for a lot more than he bargained for. Probably-not-very-well-thought-out Jungle AU that will most likely end in USUK.
1. Did Someone Call For a Colony?

**A/N: In all honesty, I have no idea where I'm going with this. But it's like a really bad/totally-absurd-sounding-thing based off of The Jungle Book that will most likely end in USUK, so . . . have fun with The Jungle AU ^J^**

 **So, to tell a bit about this AU, it's like the universe of The Jungle Book but instead of animals there are nations and colonies and micronations though there are still some animals, but these animals don't talk or anything outstandingly-magical, they're kind of just there. And they all live in the Jungle, of course. ^J^**

 **England doesn't exactly show up in this chapter, but he will eventually appear in the story I swear!**

 **Summary: While on his way to find a colony, America just happens to rescue a certain micronation. Sort of. Kind of. Well, not really. But that's beside the point, because now he's in for a lot more than he bargained for. Probably-not-very-well-thought-out Jungle AU that will most likely end in USUK.**

 **This is what happens when I word vomit, but I hope it's still at least a little bit okay. ^J^**

 **Disclaimer: I own neither Hetalia: Axis Powers nor The Jungle Book.**

* * *

Food had always been priority number one for America. Everyone had to eat, after all, though America has to eat slightly more than most—"slightly more" meaning he had to eat his own body weight on a daily basis, to be precise. And it is precisely this fact that drives him through that fateful patch of jungle that night, running after rumors of a new colony.

"Not the colony of an empire," the Netherlands had revealed to him hours earlier, stiffer than usual as he joined America at the bar. And that was saying something, because usually the Netherlands was pretty stiff. At America's curious look, the Netherlands grudgingly tugged aside part of his scarf to flash the cause of his stiffness—a series of welts creeping up his neck. He replaced his scarf just as quickly and finished, "a colony of _bees_."

The Netherlands sighed, reaching forward to grab a pint to drink when his hand was stopped halfway across the counter. His followed the length of the arm that had seized his wrist to meet a pair of serious blue eyes.

"Where's the colony?"

So, after having to promise the Netherlands to a) pay for the next round of drinks and b) not come running back as soon as he got stung or tripped or got swallowed whole and passed out the other end of whatever unfortunate jungle beast decided to eat him, America was off. A remarkably-detailed map sketched out onto a napkin was in one hand, the other one making sure his glasses didn't fall off as he ran, eyes glued onto the path the Netherlands had so generously drawn for him to follow.

Which was probably why after running undeterred for several hours longer than expected, his foot hit a bump and America was suddenly sprawling on the jungle floor, glasses knocked aside from the impact. He cast only the briefest of glances at the offending obstacle—"Not cool, tree-root-dude. Not cool."—before realizing that he had absolutely no idea where his glasses had gone. He was about to scramble in search of them when he registered the _voice_.

It wasn't exceptionally low, but was kept quieter than most sounds America usually found himself exposed to. It didn't have exceptional variation in tone or pitch or any of that, but it seemed to dart through the branches like silver. Like the color of its owner's hair. Like how the owner's scarf would shoot out to ensnare its victims . . .

America felt skin under his fingers and realized that at some point he had absentmindedly reached up to touch his own neck, where the deathly scarf had once wound. The memory was blurry, but there.

 _Russia_.

His head turned toward the source of the voice, and could make out just the faint outline of the figure in a long coat. The moonlight that filtered through the trees behind them made his pale hair appear almost translucent in the night. The scarf around his neck was abnormally stretched out and twisted around some poor little guy America didn't recognize. Too small to be a nation. But not quite the right size for a colony, either. And they were ten-something feet directly above his head, too absorbed in each other to notice him as long as America remained quiet and out of sight.

" _Everything will be just fine, comrade . . . all you have to do is become one, da_?"

America made a split-second decision:

He really, _really_ needed to find his glasses.

In that same moment, there was a roar, and America looked back up just in time to see a fuzzy shape colliding with Russia. The tendrils of his scarf instantly snapped away from the victim, sending the boy falling down, down, down . . .

. . . Right on top of America's head, sending him sprawling uncomfortably on the ground once more.

"Ow."

* * *

 **A Conversation Between Two Unlike Things**

 _Dude, calm down! I totally saved your butt back there, so you should totally be thankful for your oh-so-wonderful hero!_

 _"Wonderful?" Nothing about this is_ "wonderful" _in the slightest, you bleeding jerkface! Now I demand you let me go this instant!_

 _No way, bro, you totally owe me._

 _Fine, then I'll show myself out._

 _Seriously? Dude, where are you going to go?_

That effectively shut him up.

* * *

America watched with a contented smile as the boy suited up in his giant robot armor. For the past few weeks, Sealand—as he'd found out the boy's name was—had been helping him collect honey from the beehives. It turned out that his robot suit was impenetrable by the bees, and so they were able to collect loads of the liquid gold without any casualties. Sealand would don his armor, blast off up to where the beehives grew off the cliffs, and knock down honeycombs to where America waited with a basket back on ground level.

It was a surprisingly effective system, and made America that much happier with his second split-second decision all those weeks before to quietly drag Sealand off with him. He was reaping almost ten times as much honey as he usually did as a result. The smile hadn't left his face ever since, and America couldn't think of anything that could wipe it away.

That is, until Sealand finished his work for the day and landed next to him on the ground, changing out of his robot suit. America grabbed the oozing basket in one hand and followed Sealand back to the cave he had found for them to live in, sneaking licks of honey as Sealand chattered happily away.

". . . and that jerk England would never let me do that, either," Sealand was rambling on as America tuned back in. America frowned. Sealand had mentioned this so-called "England" before, but the name seemed familiar for a different reason, one that he couldn't quite place. Oblivious to his companion's suddenly-contemplative mood, Sealand continued with a happy sigh, "You know, the more I think about it, I'm actually kind of glad you rescued me that other night. I don't know what would have happened to me if you hadn't stepped in . . . I'm not saying that you're not still a jerk of jerks, of course! Just . . . maybe slightly less of one."

America's stomach dropped at those words. His smile was glued.

Weeks, and he still hadn't told Sealand the truth about that night. No, not yet.

"Hello? Earth to America, are you still listening?"

"Huh? Yeah, totally!" America winked, voice swelling with confidence. "After all, that's what heroes are supposed to do."

Sealand didn't seem to entirely believe in this response, but accepted it nevertheless and proceeded to switch to gushing about their earnings for the day. It really was impressive, the amount of honey America was able to collect thanks to the boy.

But it wasn't enough to cover the souring taste of guilt.

* * *

 **Notes on this Chapter:**

 **Did you see the definition for a certain type of figurative language that I referenced briefly and in bold? ^J^**

 **It's kind of choppy and not too much happens in this chapter but things will pick up soon . . . hopefully! *cough*wow-I-feel-so-evil*cough*I'msosorry*cough***

 **Does America know about England here? No. Is there a reason England's name sounds familiar? Yes. Am I going to tell you why right now? No. Are you going to find out? Probably. ^J^**

 **Feedback is greatly appreciated!**


	2. Happy One-Month-iversary!

**A/N: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! ;w; When I decided on giving them a One-Month-iversary, I didn't think I'd be uploading this chapter when it almost actually WAS their One-Month-iversary. Whoops. *sweatdrops***

 **Disclaimer: I own neither Hetalia: Axis Powers nor The Jungle Book.**

* * *

America dreamt of Russia.

Well, not quite. It was more of a nightmare, really, for three main reasons:

One. In his dream, the two ends of a scarf crossed around his neck and wound themselves tighter and tighter, until he couldn't breathe and spots crept into his vision. He thought he was about to black out, but that was preposterous. Heroes didn't black out.

Two. In his dream, he was short; he could only see up to Russia's scarf, and that was only when he craned his neck. He didn't like that at all, the feeling of being so small and out-of-control in the grip of that scarf.

Three. In his dream, he had no idea where Texas was. And that worried him very, very much.

" _Become one, da?_ "

That voice again. It hissed at him, silky but with something vehement in it. Though the malice was clear, when he tilted his head down slightly so that the sound could be shot like a cold, burning weapon into his eyes, America saw something under it, something that rang not quite as forcibly but hit him just the same.

Russia was lonely.

And America could see that the nation was, under the layers of deadly scarf wound around his neck, under the heavy coat he refused to take off, under the light of the moon on that cold, quiet night, hoping earnestly and almost naively for someone who would be able to fight it off by surrendering. America almost was that someone. That someone with deadly scarf, heavy coat, and the light of the moon on a cold, quiet night who filled the whole in that chest where a heart should have been.

 _Yes._

America so desperately wanted to respond, to tell him that he wasn't alone. He wouldn't be alone. He'd make sure of it.

But the dream ended like it did on every other night he had it, with a dark figure bursting from the trees and colliding into a wide-eyed Russia as the scarf was ripped away. And then there was the falling, the strangest part of the dream yet, where America's face was to the sky but all he saw was forest green.

The mournful eyes of a stranger that tore away from America's only at the very last instant in order to fend off Russia, who had returned to his feet and was swinging at the stranger with unrestrained rage at having been cheated out of yet another friend.

As branches whipped across his back, America couldn't help but feel sorry. For the friend he never got to make. For those sad green eyes he never quite placed but seemed to know him so well. For the faint, silly notion somewhere at the back of his head that said _Well_ —and here there was a name he didn't quite catch— _ol' buddy, this must be what it feels like to die._

When he fell awake, there was a micronation in his room.

"Happy One-Month-iversary, jerkface!" Sealand beamed, holding out what appeared to be a giant hunk of coal. Said giant hunk of coal immediately landed with a splat perfectly in the center of America's face. "Drats, there goes the cake . ."

America wiped the so-called "cake" off with a brush of his hand, then ate it anyway. As he licked his fingers, America nodded appreciatively, "Mm, good stuff. But, uh, why'd you make it?"

"Do you listen to anything?" Sealand frowned. "It's the one-month anniversary of our time together!"

"Oh," America said flatly, doing some quick mental calculations. He groaned and flopped back onto his back. "Dammit, I totally forgot to get you something!"

"It's alright," Sealand assured him without missing a beat. "You saved me, remember? I know I don't act like it all the time, but I'm glad you did, so sit back and let me do something in return, got it you big jerk? Today, we'll fill at least fifty baskets of honey by sundown, I'm sure of it!"

* * *

A green-eyed nation was alone in the Jungle, his face taut as he surveyed the land around him, comparing it to the drawings on the map. He was at the edge of the deciduous tree-line, where the eternally-summery state of the Jungle started to fade into a snowy landscape of evergreens. The map matched it. He gave a grim nod.

He was in Nordic territory now. He was getting close.

The nation took another step forward, but when he did, he heard a sound unlike the mashing of snow beneath his boot. No, it was a sleek noise, definitely not like that of stepping in half-frozen sludge. It sounded metallic, almost like—

His eyes widened as he dropped to the ground and rolled out of the way of a dangerously-gleaming projectile. The knife planted itself firmly in the earth where he had just been standing. "What the . . . ? Bloody . . ."

He glanced around in case another knife was about to come flying out of him. When none did, the nation cautiously moved over to examine the knife embedded in the ground. He kneeled down, gingerly pulling it out with one hand. It appeared to be a regular kitchen knife, but it took some effort for him to extract nevertheless. After turning it over a few times in his hand, he pocketed it—who knew when it might come in handy—and stood.

That was when he felt one press against his throat.

"England, is it?" a female voice asked uncomfortably close to his ear, sounding more like a demand than a casual conversation. "We have several things to discuss."

* * *

America had almost spilled the truth out to Sealand right there. About how it was all a hoax and had been from the start. About how he'd been perfectly willing to leave Sealand in Russia's clutches. About how he'd cared more about his glasses than about the micronation's life. But then Sealand had mentioned the honey, how he was willing to work harder corresponding to their so-called "One-Month-iversary", and America never could say no to food.

So, America chose not to interrupt. It twisted a knot of something wretched in his gut, perhaps shame, but not as much shame as the knowledge that if he had to chance to do it over again, he still wouldn't have corrected the micronation. Honey was valuable, a novelty. It was scarce these days, and America would reap as much as he could from it well before he even considered the notion of jeopardizing it with the truth.

"Ah, would you look at that!" an airy—and suddenly un-socially-acceptably-close-to-his-ear—voice cooed. America had barely registered it before he felt something land across his shoulders and he stiffened. Tsk-ing resulted. "Amerique, have your reflexes deteriorated so quickly already? Perhaps it is laziness setting in, non?"

"No," America deadpanned, shrugging off the nation's arm. "France, aren't you supposed to be off frolicking in a flower field or something?"

"Well, I would be but Germany was occupying it," France pouted.

"Germany was gathering dandelions," Japan offered as an explanation.

"We could have stayed," Hungary huffed, "but France is too much of a pansy to share a flower field so he dragged us off in this direction and I swear we've passed this beehive eight times alrea—"

France hastily cut her off at this point. "Oui, oui, well, that's our morning for you. So, Amerique, I see that you have a new underling."

He indicated Sealand, who was dressed in full giant-transforming-robot-armor as he prepared to karate-chop a beehive, with a slight nod of acknowledgment.

"Yeah, that's him up there," America confirmed, leaving out the name of this new underling. "He's a good little guy, and though he might not look like it, the dude knows how to get stuff done. Hey, have I told you guys that thanks to him, my honey production has—"

"—skyrocketed," Hungary beat him to it with a _yes-we-noticed-and-so-no-that's-not-really-necessary-but-thanks-for-the-newsflash_ smile. "It's all that anyone uses nowadays."

America and Hungary dove into a discussion about honey—which was mostly America raving about it while Hungary offered news about the current state of the honey market and France tried to interject with random tidbits of gossip and other updates of the outside world; it had been quite a while since America had made contact with other nations.

Japan, meanwhile, had his eyes pinned on Sealand's flying form. The robot suit seemed more and more familiar the more and more he looked. He knew exactly where the joints bent whenever Sealand moved, even when the sunlight glinted off of them and made them too bright to see clearly. It was as if he'd seen it before somewhere, as if . . .

"Of course," he breathed quietly, the realization dawning on him.

America paused in his conversation to turn in Japan's direction, "Huh? Japan, you say something dude?"

"Nothing you should be immediately aware of," Japan said reassuringly.

Sure enough, America returned to his conversation, oblivious to the bit of information now in Japan's possession. As for Japan himself, he merely continued his quiet observations, mulling over a certain tidbit of information related to the identity of this new underling of America's.

* * *

"Forty-eight, forty-nine . . . there! That's fifty!" Sealand beamed excitedly, touching each of the baskets as he counted them off. They'd returned to the cave just in time for nightfall to count their earnings in the dim light. Sealand sat back with satisfaction. "See? I told you we'd do it didn't I, you jerk?"

It had taken several hours well after Hungary, France, and Japan had gone off in search of the nearest inn—"Because taverns, inns, and, well, just about anywhere with alcohol is a surefire sign of male civilization, and where there is male civilization, there is yaoi!" "Dude, Hungary, I don't know if I've mentioned this before but you should totally get a hobby or something." "This _is_ my hobby."—but at Sealand's protests each time America suggested they head back, America had agreed to stay outside until they'd met their quota. Once again, looking at the many baskets of honey spread out before him, he couldn't say he regretted it.

America tousled the micronation's hair with a laugh. Sealand tried to act frustrated as he swatted his hand away, but he was smiling as well. "Yeah, you sure did, dude. Nice job! Alright, looks like it's getting late. Time for some shut-eye."

"Happy One-Month-iversary!" Sealand called once more, a merry good-night.

America rolled onto his side, settling down for the night. He could get used to this, couldn't he? ". . . Happy One-Month-iversary."

* * *

 **Notes on this Chapter:**

 **Guess who's finally made an "official" appearance. And guess who appeared right behind him. ^J^**


	3. The Cheese Assailant

**A/N: We hereby take some time away from America and Sealand to formally introduce the cheese assailant! ^J^ Though this chapter is somewhat choppier than I would have liked . . . hmm, that could be a pun considering its contents . . .**

 **The writing really is kind of all over the place, though, so you've been warned! ^J^**

 **Disclaimer: I own neither Hetalia: Axis Powers nor The Jungle Book.**

* * *

Belarus didn't bother to fight the snarl on her face as she attacked the round white hunk of cheese that sat innocently— _aggravatingly_ —on the cutting board. It was brie. Or camembert. She didn't remember, nor did she particularly care. But to make it more bearable, she pretended that it was her boss. It wasn't that hard. He already smelled like cheese half the time, anyway.

Under any other circumstances, she would've been anywhere but in the kitchen of the tavern. She'd much rather prefer to be out searching for her precious Big Brother; darting through the trees with her knives in hand; moving like a sharp, glittering fish as she tracked him down, step by agonizing step. But no matter how little she stopped in civilization, traveling needed money, which she had run out of.

* * *

 **A Lively Job Interview**

 _Give me a job._

 _MON DIEU, ARE THOSE SCRATCH MARKS I SEE ON THE DOOR?_

 _The door was getting in the way, so I took care of it._

 _You could've just used the knob . . ._

 _Quit crying and give me my job already._

 _*sniff* Fine, I suppose this interview must go on . . . we do need more staff here, after all. What are your skills? Can you cook?_

 _I prefer using knives._

 _Ah, then I have just the task for you! Follow me over—WAIT, DON'T TOUCH THAT! . . . I mean, I-I can hold the door for you—chivalrous, non?—so no need to . . . damage it . . . further. Well, that looks like it's going to need a lot of repairing . . ._

* * *

Speaking of her boss, she could hear his whistling over the clatter and clamor of the dining travelers in the adjoining room. There wasn't a door between the kitchen and the dining room—her boss didn't generally trust her around doors after her short interview—so she always had some idea of what went on amongst the travelers simply by listening. At least, that was her mindset when she'd sought out a job at the nearest tavern, thinking that perhaps she'd be able to catch news of her brother through the travelers' gossip. Instead, the constant aimless chatter just got on her nerves.

Most of the time she wound up simply tuning it out, but the one sound she could never tune out was that awful whistling. It wasn't that the whistling was bad. Her boss whistled very well, actually, hitting all the right notes on all the right beats. _Frère Jacques,_ _Frère Jacques_. . .

If only this Frère Jacques would get up already so she wouldn't have to listen to France unfailingly whistling the same, increasingly-redundant tune day in and day out. She snapped at him with this remark as soon as she heard him step into the kitchen; France had been in the middle of whistling the third line of the song by that point, but stopped to listen to her amusedly.

He laughed as he pulled on his apron. "Ah, does the madam have any requests? Perhaps she would like a romantic serenade, non?"

"Non." she responded flatly.

Belarus had to remind herself that she needed this job for only a few more days. _Then_ she could decide whether or not she still wanted to maul her current boss. She accordingly redirected her frustrations at the cheese.

"I take it you are not a fan of music, then," France sighed, oblivious to his employee's less-than-innocent thoughts. He stirred the contents of a pot over the stove, making two circles before testing the spoon. "It needs more honey. Could you pass me some? It should be on the shelf right over—yes, that one right over your head."

She passed the bottle without much of a glance. It didn't take long for her to memorize the layout of the kitchen—anything bottled and able to be stored at room temperature was in a cabinet; the wine had its own cellar; frozen foods were in the ice box; however, Belarus still had no idea where he kept the cheese, but wasn't particularly bothered to ask seeing how France always took it upon himself to retrieve it for her anyway—to the point where she no longer had to look in order to find just what her boss needed.

France himself, on the other hand, studied the bottle intently before pouring some of its contents into the pot. He thumbed over it contemplatively. "You know, I'm fairly involved with the honey business, but I haven't seen so much of America's honey available since . . . hmm, I can't recall precisely when, but it really has been a while since he's produced so much, non?"

"Well, good business for him, then," Belarus stated, shrugging off his attempts at small talk. She raised her hand to start working on the second wheel of cheese, but France was persistent.

"Oui, he seems to be doing very well for himself," France mused. Switching gears, he said off-handedly, "You know, I spoke with England yesterday, too. He said something about the Nordics, something about Russia, and a lot of talk about something called 'Sealand'—perhaps it's an aquatic theme park? I don't know, he was very drunk."

Belarus, who had been slowly stiffening over the course of France's idle chatter, suddenly whirled on him. The second wheel of cheese sat untouched on the cutting board behind her. The knuckles of her knife hand were pulled to a tight white—she didn't point it at him, but its presence between them was a silent, deadly-sharp threat.

"He mentioned Bi—you say he mentioned Russia?" she asked, mentally cursing herself for her slip. She continued talking rigidly but rapidly to cover it up before France would notice. "What did he say? Is there any news of him?"

"N-non, it was all mostly ranting about him and his 'stupid, bloody scarf'—his words, not mine!"

"Nothing about what Russia's been up to?" Trying to hide the excitement in her voice was giving it a hysterical edge that she neither liked nor wanted. It didn't appear to be sitting well with France, either. "Nothing about his current whereabouts?"

"Nothing at all, which was exactly what Angleterre was ranting about," France hastily reassured her. He sighed. "The man said he wanted to _find_ him. Crazy, non? I told him as much, but he insisted—said he was going to leave this morning, too—but it was all drunken rambling, so I sent him back up to his room. He did come up with some creative curses at me for not getting him another round, though. Most likely he's just lying around somewhere with an awful hangover as we speak."

Belarus mulled over this, but only for a moment. Then she slipped her apron off her shoulders and hung it around the doorknob. It waved slightly when she let go of the strap, like a hand swaying goodbye.

She cast France a stony look as she pulled the door open. Two words slipped out. "I quit."

"Wait!" France was at her wrist before she could follow her words out the door. Her eyebrows furrowed into a glare. "Are you looking for Russia, or for England?"

She shook off his hand. "Whichever way is faster."

He wouldn't let her leave. "Do you promise not to hurt him?"

She tried to sidestep him. "Whatever reason could I have to hurt Russia?"

She failed. "England. Do you promise not to hurt England?"

She looked at him in growing annoyance.

He looked at her in all seriousness.

Belarus looked at the doorframe, blocked by France's insistent form—obviously she wouldn't be leaving anytime soon without an answer—so she relented and gave him one as bluntly as she could.

"I'll do what I have to do to get to Russia," she stated. Her sharp eyes glared into his. "If England gets in the way, I'll have to get him out of it. But I won't hurt him unless it's one of those things I have to do. Hopefully, your friend will be fine."

France was quiet. Belarus took this as her chance to brush past him, but she'd barely made it out of the room when he called her attention back.

"He—England—said he planned to make a stop with the Nordics first, before going after Russia."

Belarus nodded in silent understanding. A moment later, she was gone.

A month later, she was standing ankle-deep in Nordic territory with snow in her shoes and England by the throat.

* * *

She released England as suddenly as she had grabbed him, watching from a respectable distance as he fell over in a mixture of surprise and relief. At the last moment, he caught himself with his elbows to keep from faceplanting in the snow. Seeing that he had landed safely, Belarus turned her attention back to the knife in her hand with a frown. It had been clouded by _his_ —England's—breath.

Belarus glared at the mist in distaste as she wiped it away. Her own knives—not the ones given to her by her cheese-eating ex-boss—still smelled like her precious brother's house, all Soviet snow and knitted clothes and long coats that fell past her knees when she stood. It was one of the few lingering reminders of her time there.

"There are better ways to greet someone, you know," England muttered, wiping snow off his clothes with a similar look of aversion. Wet clothes weren't really a priority of his at the moment, especially when it was cold enough to freeze him into a walking popsicle.

Belarus didn't look up from polishing her knife. "If you say so. But why waste time saying 'hello' when I can ask you, right now, why you're looking for Russia?"

"Russia?" England snorted. Not convincingly enough, if Belarus's uncompromising expression was anything to go by. "I'm in Nordic territory, in case you haven't noticed."

"That may be true for now, but I know that you're going to go after him as soon as you leave. It's my responsibility to know what you're planning and why."

"Well, I certainly wasn't planning on coming here to be interrogated by his nosy babysitter," he quipped—their conversation was starting to veer dangerously close to a direction he didn't want to go in, and right now, his get-into-a-passive-aggressive-verbal-fight-or-flight instinct was telling him to leave as soon as possible. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I have some Nordics to find."

"I believe you have some Russia to find," Belarus persisted. She had learned a thing or two about stubbornness from France, as loathe as she was to admit it. "As it so happens, I am looking for him as well. Won't you join forces with me so that we can find him together?"

She'd been looking for her brother for so long, she couldn't remember his height anymore. His face was fuzzy, with only his eyes staring back at her like two round violet stones. When she closed her eyes, she could feel her fingers straightening the fabric of a scarf, but only when they were closed, because she couldn't remember the scarf's color. It—the scarf, the memory, her brother—was faded, fading.

Sometimes she woke up and all she knew was the nagging feeling that she was looking for some _thing_ instead of some _one_. And Belarus didn't particularly enjoy the sensation of being scared of her own self whenever that happened. It gave her extra incentive to find her brother, but these days incentive just wasn't enough. It was like a treadmill, seemingly making steps but never moving forward.

Perhaps she was so worn out following the same leads—dead ends—that she couldn't see the new ones anymore. She needed a fresh set of eyes, someone as determined as she was to track down Russia. As much as he denied it, Belarus was sure that England was that someone. He snorted and brushed her off and showed every sign that he didn't want to be standing anywhere remotely close to her, and yet when she'd said the word "Russia", she could have sworn she'd seen his eyes _flash_. Despite everything, it was that one slip that made it all so undeniably clear—England wanted to find Russia, perhaps even somewhere remotely near as much as Belarus did. Perhaps they could succeed together where Belarus failed alone.

England had stopped in his tracks, flakes of snow starting to dot his hair. Belarus felt her heart pick up speed in hope, but England had only paused in order to toss back a response.

". . . Yes," the corners of his mouth gave a twinge upward. "I _won't_."

And he kept walking.

Belarus ground her teeth. They clacked with the cold, but she defied the temperature and used her eyes to burn holes into his back as he left. He didn't look back once, obviously hoping she would take a hint. She knew it, but she didn't move from her spot until long after he'd disappeared into the pine forest.

England thought that was the last he would see of her. How cute. How bitterly, naïvely, disappointingly cute.

* * *

 **Notes on this Chapter:**

 **. . . There is a joke I could make about Belarus's job, but that will probably come later ^J^**

 **"** **Frère Jacques" is a French nursery rhyme that, according to Wikipedia, is about a friar who is asleep instead of attending to his duties. It's also the song France whistles in the seventh episode of Hetalia: World Series (Episode 59). ^J^ There are versions of the song in multiple languages.**

 **Feedback is greatly appreciated!**


	4. Love Trigonometry

**A/N: This chapter is about twice as long as usual, but a lot of it is choppy and cringe-worthy word vomit with a lot of mood swings among the characters . . . *sweatdrops* I apologize in advance, but it advances the story.**

 **Disclaimer: I own neither Hetalia: Axis Powers nor The Jungle Book.**

* * *

Belarus mentally cursed herself when the footprints came to an abrupt stop. The trees overhead did a good job of keeping the snow from covering England's footprints, so the tracks she had been following for the past hour were still cleanly preserved. Knowing this, she had wandered alongside them without a rush—each footprint stared back at her just as crisply as the one before. However, she'd failed to consider that England might walk into a clearing, where the lack of trees allowed snow to fill up his tracks almost as soon as he made them. Now, all she was left staring at level snow.

She took a step back and glared intently at the footprints behind her. If he'd gone in a straight line, the trail would have continued directly on the opposite side of the clearing, she reasoned. His footprints had to continue _somewhere_ , since England obviously wasn't still standing in the middle of the clearing. All Belarus had to do was find where that "somewhere" was.

Her path of action clear, she placed herself next to the last clear footprint and resolutely marched directly forward across the clearing. When the trees on the other side came into view, so did England's footprints underneath them. Belarus fingered her knife in satisfaction and continued following the trail.

Twenty minutes later, she spotted a blond head wearing a green uniform and boots standing impatiently next to a large tree. Several heavy-looking bags were stacked on the ground next to him, and occasionally he would lean over and adjust one absentmindedly; it was clear that he had been standing there for quite a while.

And now Belarus had finally caught up to him.

"England!" she called, using the blunt end of her knife to turn his shoulder. "Have you had enough time to think over my offer? Surely you must see by now that this way is the . . ."

She trailed off when she realized that the nation in question was blinking at her uncomprehendingly. And that his eyes were a different shade of green than she remembered. And that unless she'd been following him for a lot more than an hour, there was no way England's hair would have grown out almost to his shoulders in such a short period of time.

"You're not England," she deadpanned. Belarus lowered her knife, but continued to hold it warily.

"Nope, I'm Poland!" said this so-called Poland, smiling cheerily, "And for the record, I'm, like, way more fabulous than whoever that guy is."

"These tracks are yours, then?" Belarus asked, stiffly indicating the footprints in the snow that led right under Poland's feet. Then she blinked. There was another set of footprints that intersected with Poland's, veering off to the side. "Whose are those?"

Poland's eyes lit up like stars. To Belarus, they looked like alarm bells, for it was suddenly apparent that she would be on the receiving end of a long rambling session.

"Oh! I'm, like, totally traveling with my friend," Poland gushed, gesturing animatedly at the bags slumping in the snow. Now that Belarus thought about it, it did look like an awful lot of supplies for just one person to carry. "He, like, always makes me wake up early so that we can spend more time trudging through the snow—totally boring, by the way, and I have to do all the talking too because he doesn't know how to lighten up; lucky for him, I have my fabulous best-friend powers so he doesn't keel over from his own wet blanket-ness because, well, how unfabulous would that be?—and he always makes me stay behind and watch the stuff for him while he's off, like, doing whatever-it-is-he's-doing—right now that would be gathering firewood, in case you want to know—but really he's a nice guy and without me, people would totally be walking all over him—like, totally—and so it's up to me to fulfill my best-friend duties by being the most fabulous companion he's ever had and ever will have. Like, ever."

Belarus blinked at the information overload, feeling uncomfortably overwhelmed and, which she found both surprising and utterly horrifying, perhaps even begrudgingly impressed by his monologue. ". . . Right."

Since leaving France's employment, she couldn't recall hearing anyone talk that long or casually to her before. They had just met, and yet Poland had easily told her a lot more—and by that, she meant a _lot_ , lot more—than she'd even considered possibly-wanting to know about him and this so-called best friend of his. And Poland had been glad to do so, which was also a lot more than she could say for most of the conversationalists she'd engaged with in the past month. Though to be fair, she _did_ kind of sort of greet England with a knife at his throat, so that probably hadn't left much room for small talk. But it was the thought that counted.

And right now, Belarus's thoughts seemed to be fiercely latched onto the idea, the absurd notion that whatever "wet blanket" had Poland as a friend was a lucky, lucky one indeed. Every complaint had had an underlying fondness that wasn't hard to dig up, and she could see something tugging upward at his mouth every time he said the words "best friend". As flighty as he appeared, it was clear that Poland cared deeply for this friend of his, and was proud to be able to call him one.

Belarus wondered what that was like, having a best friend. Having someone like Poland to talk to instead of having to feebly label piles and piles of interrogations and negotiations as conversations for the sole reason that those were the two things her "social life" was built on these days. She'd never been very extroverted, but to have someone like that . . .

She tried to shoo it off, finding the mere thought of the thought to be an utterly repulsive one, but it refused to budge, as if it were a solid thing planted inside her head. A body. A confidant. A friend. It started to sound less and less detestable, but that only made her bristle more.

It couldn't hurt, having someone like Poland. But it wouldn't help, either.

Small talk wasn't enough to change the fact that it was Poland she was talking to and not England; it didn't alter the fact that she'd lost England's trail after the clearing; it did nothing to change the fact that this one had turned out to be a dud, regardless of Poland's presence at the end of it—because she was looking for Russia and to find Russia she was going to find England, and Poland was neither. Idle chatter wasn't going to get her to her Big Brother's doorstep. It was a distraction that was more likely to slow her down, a weight made out of words dragging along behind her.

If she wanted to get there any faster, the best thing she could do right now was walk away while it was still an option and retreat to the clearing. If she was fast enough, perhaps she could still find England's—the _real_ England's—footprints before they were erased by snow. And being as practical as she was, Belarus twisted around nicely on her heels to do just that. Only, the universe seemed to have something else in mind.

"Belarus?"

The voice didn't come from Poland, who had been talking away while Belarus wasn't paying attention but stopped at the sound of the newcomer. No, the voice came from the trees to the side, where the other set of footprints, those of Poland's oh-so-mysterious friend, had led into. Belarus fought the urge to step back at the sight of a familiar brown-haired and wide-eyed nation staring back at her in surprise. She faintly registered a clumsy clunking sound; Lithuania was holding a heap of branches that had been carefully collected from the ground for firewood, but nearly dropped it upon locking gazes with the female nation in front of him.

"Belarus," he repeated. She remained silent, but made a move to walk away. "W-wait, don't leave! We have a lot to catch up on, don't we? Surely you can stay with us a little longer—we have food—and you can warm up by the fire, too."

Her knees felt a bit wobbly and she had to stop to keep from falling over. A mantra was playing in her head like an earworm. _Lithuania. Poland's friend is Lithuania._

She wasn't sure why this seemed to upset her so much. Back when they'd lived in Russia's house, she had scorned Lithuania for being her brother's favorite, for being in her way, for being utterly enamored with Belarus herself. She couldn't understand why Russia preferred Lithuania over Belarus when Lithuania always seemed to tiptoe around him, like a maid trying not to be seen. Lithuania was weak in Belarus's eyes, and she spent many nights entertaining the thought that she could easily take him down in a fight. But, as she gradually came to see, not when the fight was over the affections of her own brother. Yet, as much as Russia enjoyed Lithuania's company over Belarus's, the same could not be said vice versa.

The aforementioned fact was that Lithuania's own affections lay elsewhere. While Russia terrified him to no end, Lithuania's relationship with Belarus had managed to become something even unhealthier. Every time he came back with a gift or a story or a request for a date, Belarus would turn him down both swiftly and vehemently. But in the rare instances that she did accept, they usually ended with Lithuania's fingers looking like they had been drawn on by a two-year-old. And Lithuania _always_ came back, no matter how many times she pushed him away when he offered his company, no matter how hard she crushed his hand whenever he wanted to hold hers, no matter how much she refused him and stepped on him and ruthlessly punished him for taking her brother away from her—Lithuania would unfailingly return to her like a lost puppy with a tennis ball.

Belarus wasn't playing hard-to-get. Belarus was trapped in limbo, playing a game of fetch with Lithuania's love.

 _Don't you see, Big Brother? He doesn't love you like I do, he can't love you like I can. His affections are something to be thrown away._

It made her shake—physically shake—to see where Lithuania's affections had gotten them. Belarus and Lithuania were now wanderers in the Jungle, houseless without Russia. Belarus's affections hadn't been enough to keep her from leaving Russia. Russia's affections hadn't been enough to make Lithuania stay. Lithuania's affections hadn't been enough to be reciprocated, because he was not Russia, because Russia was not Belarus, because Belarus was not Lithuania. And Lithuania was one part of the Soviet Union that Belarus had insisted she'd be okay with never laying eyes on ever again.

Belarus opened her mouth to decline his offer, but Poland—who had gone strangely silent—beat her to speaking. "H-hold the horses, _this_ is Belarus?"

* * *

Poland, aside from being inherently fabulous, could also be very persuasive when he set his mind to it.

It was at his demands that Belarus somehow wound up sitting around a campfire with Poland planted resolutely between her and Lithuania. She hadn't been particularly inclined to stay close to Lithuania anyway, given their history with Russia, so Poland's presence was a small relief. That is, until he opened his mouth for the first time since they'd sat down.

" _You're Belarus_ ," he said, studying her intensely. It was all that seemed to be on his mind.

"Yes," she replied, turning the stick she held over the fire slowly like a rotisserie. Without looking over, she almost lazily alerted, "Your marshmallow is burning."

Poland blinked once before registering the statement and pulling his flaming marshmallow out of the fire—" _ACK, YOU'RE, LIKE, TOTALLY RIGHT_!"—and stabbing it into the snow before the stick caught fire as well. Apparently, the "food" Lithuania had promised consisted of eleven bags of jumbo marshmallows. They had been like a troupe of contortionists, somehow managing to fit all eleven bags into a single backpack.

* * *

 **A Conversation Using "Like" and "Totally"**

 _. . . You said there was food._

 _Well, duh! Marshmallows are, like, totally food, aren't they?_

 _Don't listen to him, they're really not. We just have all these left over from the first—_ and last _—time I let him do the grocery shopping. He also returned with a bright-pink tent._

 _Because pink is a totally fabulous color and you know it, Liet! Now let's dig in already, I'm, like, starving._

 _That makes sense if the two of you have been living off of . . ._ these _. . ._

 _Hmmph. Yeah, yeah. Now make up your mind, do you want marshmallows or not?_

Belarus looked at Poland, who she had expected to see at least slightly irked by her comments but who was, instead, smiling as pleasantly as usual. Well, at least free "food" still didn't cost money.

 _. . . Hand me a stick._

* * *

After Poland had grabbed a new marshmallow from the bag and returned to the fire sulking over the loss of the first one, it was Belarus's turn to ask him something. "Why do you find it so noteworthy that I am Belarus?"

"I don't find it noteworthy, I find it totally worry-worthy," Poland replied matter-of-factly. Then his eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. "You're the one who totally used to date Liet as an excuse to break all the bones in his hands."

"Don't worry, it was just the fingers and most of the wrist," Lithuania hastily assured him. "The bones in my palm area were relatively unharmed."

"Case in point," said Poland, remembering to lift his marshmallow this time to keep it from dipping too low.

Lithuania sighed, shaking his head as he stood up. "We have this conversation every time. He's like a broken record, I'm telling you! I'll go see if I can find some other food for you, if you still want."

With that, Lithuania left the fire. Poland scooted into a position across from Belarus so that he could look directly into her eyes.

"Liet's not the only one I know you from," he said quietly, waiting until Lithuania had disappeared from view. "I've heard of you, the one who's, like, totally obsessed with Russia. Well, like it or not, Liet thinks of you the same way you think of Russia—but he's a nice guy, so probably less violently—and you might not see it, but he tries just as hard to win you over as you do with Russia, too—but again, he's a nice guy, so probably less violently. You know what, totally less violently. Every time he's tried to approach you, he's wound up getting hurt, whether it was his fingers or his back or wherever, but what sucks is that he totally didn't care about it at all. He said that love was being able to come back, even when things were rough and totally unfabulous, so that he would be there when they got better. But you were in, like, a limbo or something together, and things didn't get better until after the collapse, when you split up and went all over the place."

He was referring to the dissolution of the Soviet Union, when they had all abandoned Russia's place to go their own separate ways. Her brother was left behind, alone in a suddenly-oversized house. Poland took a bite out of his marshmallow.

"So now that you're back, I'm totally worried about Liet because I don't want it to happen all over again, you know?" he finished, chewing his marshmallow while he talked. "That would be totally unfabulous, for both you and him. I know you know how much it sucks to go after someone who's not into you."

This was soon followed by the sound of approaching footsteps crunching in the snow as Lithuania returned sheepishly, having missed their discussion. Another bag of marshmallows was in his hand, which he set down as he greeted them with an awkward little laugh. "Sorry, this was all I found. Turns out we have _more_ than eleven bags of marshmallows."

Belarus didn't bat an eye at his return, too focused on continuing her conversation with Poland to respond. Bluntly, she stated, "Russia loves me."

"Yeah, yeah," said Poland, casting a brief nod of acknowledgment in Lithuania's direction. And to check for any signs of distress at Belarus's blatant statement. He found none, but was still uneasy as he turned his attention back to Belarus. "But then why are you, like, chasing him?"

"I'm finding him."

"By totally chasing him because he totally doesn't want to be found."

"That's not it," Belarus straightened her back. "He still pushed me away before I left his house—I'll admit that that much hasn't changed—but right now I can tell that Russia isn't himself."

Lithuania sat down to listen. "He's not? How do you know?"

"I'm not sure if I should say."

"Oh, come on!" Poland exclaimed. "You're totally set on looking for him, so there, like, _has_ to be a good reason behind it."

Belarus was quiet for a moment, eyeing the fire contemplatively. Lithuania was one of the last people she wanted to potentially reunite with her brother, but perhaps she owed him after everything she'd put him through back under Russia's roof. Finally, she inhaled and began speaking again.

"After Russia's house was divided, I tried my best to search for him, but to no avail. Eventually, I ran out of money, so I got a job working in a tavern. I figured that since there were so many travelers that passed through, it would be a good place to catch news of the latest occurrences without having to go too far. For the first week or so, there was nothing. But before the month ended, I started hearing some very alarming rumors among the visitors to the tavern."

" _Do you, like, have to say it so forebodingly_?" Poland squeaked, moving a little closer to the fire.

"Do you want to hear the story or not?" Belarus huffed. Poland reluctantly closed his mouth and tried not to shudder. "So, as I was saying then. When I passed by the tables in the dining hall, I would hear the travelers whispering about a mysterious figure they would see at night. A tall man, with a long coat and a scarf around his neck. He was usually seen silhouetted against the moonlight on nights when it shone particularly strong, so the other details of his appearance varied, but this was the description that they all seemed to agree upon. It fits Russia very well, don't you think? I did, and perhaps they did, too, but it wasn't confirmed and so the mysterious figure remained unattached to a name. Still, from all the sightings, I figured that he must have been in the area of the tavern, so I set out to look for him on the night after the next, when the moon was large and bright. If he appeared when the moonlight was strong, then surely that would be the night I saw him for myself—there was enough light for me to count each blade of grass that grew from the ground. It was perfect."

She paused, as if still seeing the world under the moon. Lithuania cleared his throat, quietly urging her to continue. It was then that Belarus laughed almost inaudibly, sending her breath floating up in the cold air.

"It was a failure. There was not a single trace of him, nor was there anyone who looked even remotely like him," she said, a twinge of bitterness to her voice. Then she eyed them both simultaneously. Her expression was more serious than usual. "The next night, I heard that he had spoken with some of the travelers, saying something odd—he promised that he would answer one question, any question, at the price of 'becoming one'. They were still frightened when they whispered about it—apparently, 'becoming one' had sounded really, really creepy to them for some reason—but he hadn't tried to pursue them after they declined, so they eventually got over it. Other travelers experienced the same thing in the following weeks—when they passed him, he would make his offer, they would decline, and he would let them leave—but then that changed."

"Why do I get the feeling that the next part is going to totally get worse?" Poland wailed. Lithuania gave him a pointed look and Belarus kept going with the story.

"My boss, France, was friends with Japan, and like France's other friends, Japan would come by the area to visit the tavern every now and then. Sometimes, he brought a micronation with him—the Republic of Nikoniko, I believe his name was—who would sit by and smile and order a load of radium eggs each time he joined us. However, one night, Japan burst into the tavern shouting for France in a panic. Nikoniko had accepted Russia's—for Japan could now confirm that it was, indeed, Russia's—offer, but he had refused to 'become one' when it was explained that to do so meant becoming bonded to Russia indefinitely. This upset Russia, and Japan had run for help when Russia's scarf had started to wrap itself around Nikoniko, according to his account. France quickly organized a group of travelers from the tavern to send aid to Nikoniko, but when Japan led them back to the spot where Russia and Nikoniko were last seen, both of them were gone."

They fell into silence once more as she let this sink in.

When the lack of talking became unbearable, Lithuania asked, "What happened after that? Did you see either of them again?"

"I don't know how it's possible, but when we finally found Nikoniko a week later, he was . . . a human," Belarus said, wincing slightly at the word "human". "As for Russia, he apparently decided to lay low afterward—other than the conundrum with Nikoniko and a few other isolated incidents, there were no more reported sightings of him. He just vanished.

"I wanted to go looking for him immediately after that, I really did, but I didn't have enough money to go far yet, nor did I have a good place to start," she admitted. "That is, until last month, when France mentioned that England was also looking for Russia. I'd accumulated a decent amount of money, so financially I should be okay. And as for England himself, although he was probably doled the same set of cards—metaphorically—as I was in the search for Russia, he's a fresh set of eyes. If there's the slightest chance that he's going to find something that I've missed, then I have to take it."

"But why?" Lithuania wondered.

"Like, we already know that you care about him and all," Poland chimed in, "but I think you've pretty much established the fact that Russia's gone totally cuckoo."

"Then I need to find him so that I can restore his sanity."

* * *

 **Notes on this Chapter:**

 **Poland, Lithuania, and Nikoniko! And a bit more about Russia. We haven't returned to talking about America quite yet, but his honey business is still faring quite well economically. ^J^ Don't ask me how Poland found marshmallows.**

 **. . .**

 ***cough*it-was-with-his-total-fabulousness*cough***

 **Some of the grammar is strange in this chapter and I think the writing overall is pretty unsatisfying, so if I ever do revisions then this will probably be one of the first chapters to be rewritten.**

 **Feedback is greatly appreciated!**


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